Tactus
by Herenya902
Summary: A response to the prompt of how Jim and Spock came to touch each other so freely. Set early in the mission.


A/N This is a one-shot based off an anon prompt on tumblr who wanted to know the origins behind Jim being allowed to touch Spock as freely as he does. It is set toward the beginning of the mission, with the majority occurring about seven months in. I'm not sure if this is what they had in mind, but I think it turned out okay.

Jim had done his homework before taking over command of the USS Enterprise. He had studied the crew log extensively, and he had taken care to pay extra attention to the details of the officers he would likely be spending most of his time with. There really hadn't been any surprises—he had gone to the academy with about half of the officers he would be serving with—until he had reached his science officer. Spock. The Vulcan.

Now, Jim had had his fair share of working with people who weren't human, and it didn't bother him at all, but he had never had a Vulcan crewmember before. So, he did some research. It was only meant to be a quick skim so that he could learn how not to make a fool of himself in front of his science officer, but before long he was reading everything he could find. The Vulcan people were incredible. Their history was just as turbulent as Earth's had been, but now they were a highly logical and peaceful people, not to mention one of the founders of the Federation.

However, he found very little about their customs. They were touch-telepaths, he knew, and they avoided physical contact with others because of it. Beyond that and a customary greeting known as a ta'al, there was nothing. It set him on edge, not knowing how his behavior would be interpreted, so he clung to the no-touching rule. Surely if he could get that down, his science officer would at least see that he was trying to be polite and let any other mistakes on his part slide.

. . .

Despite all of his preparation, Jim had not been ready to meet the Vulcan science officer known as Spock. He had raised his hand in the ta'al when he had met him in the transporter room after beaming aboard his ship for the first time, awkwardly forcing his fingers apart and smiling, and the Vulcan had copied his movement—without the smile. That hadn't been the problem though. The problem was that his science officer was incredibly attractive.

Jim had a reputation for being a womanizer. He knew that. Part of that reputation was even justified. Despite that reputation though, gender had never been something he had been particularly concerned about when looking for a partner. Beauty was beauty in his eyes, and he liked to think that he knew how to spot it in all of its forms. Unfortunately for him, Spock definitely fell into the category of beautiful.

He hadn't said anything about it, of course. He wasn't an idiot. But as the days turned into weeks and he became more and more comfortable around his crew—stars it felt so good to call them that—he realized that his little crush on his science officer wasn't going away, and he had no idea what to do about it.

Then, Spock had walked into one of the rec rooms while Jim was playing chess against the computer and asked for a game, and suddenly it was one of those things where they met two or three times a week to play chess, and his crush got a lot harder to manage.

. . .

"Captain, forgive me, but I cannot see the logic in that particular move," Spock stated, one eyebrow raised as he watched Jim set his knight on the level above where he had previously been moving.

Jim flashed him an easy grin. "Well, Mr. Spock, as we say on earth, there is a method to my madness."

Spock didn't reply, but Jim thought he could see a small upturn of his lips, and the thought made his stomach flutter in a way it hadn't since second-grade. Stars, he was in trouble. It really was just his luck that he would fall for the one person on this ship who thought of emotions as illogical and undesirable.

Oh well.

The game was nearing its end—Spock would have his king in five moves, and there was very little Jim could do about it; moving his knight had been a desperate attempt to throw Spock off his game—when Spock sat back in his chair, his eyes meeting Jim's over the chessboard. There had been a time—a very very brief time—when Jim had considered that gaze cold. Now, however, he could read glimpses of a dozen different emotions, a thousand different thoughts in that single look. Right now, that gaze told him that Spock wanted to ask him something but was unsure of how to approach the subject.

He leaned back in his chair and waited, peering calmly at the Vulcan.

After a few moments, Spock's lips set into a thin line the way they always did when he was uncomfortable, and he spoke. "Humans are very tactile by nature, are they not?"

Jim wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but it hadn't been this. He shifted in his seat and said, "Well, I would say it depends on the person—I grew up with a kid who hated physical contact to the point that he wore gloves at all times—but in general, yes."

Spock nodded as if that was the answer he had expected to receive and then looked back down at the chessboard. The tips of his ears were a very light green. Was he blushing?

"If I may ask, where did that question come from, Mr. Spock?" Jim kept his tone light, but on the inside, his stomach was doing somersaults, and he wondered if his own ears had gone red. It was a simple question, so why could he feel sweat gathering in his palms?

The Vulcan looked up from the chessboard, and this time, Jim couldn't quite decipher what those dark eyes were telling him. "I have noticed that you are a tactile person, Captain."

Jim felt panic begin to pool in his stomach. He thought he had done well, he thought he had kept his hands to himself, he had thought—

"However, your interactions with me are markedly different than those with other members of the crew." Spock looked down now, almost speaking to the board. "I have noticed times when you have purposefully refrained from making physical contact with me despite evidence showing that such behavior is how you would interact with other crew members in the same situation." There was a heartbeat. "Why?" Brown eyes met his, and in an instant Jim understood.

"Spock, my actions in no way reflect a lesser opinion of you," he declared quickly. "I've been restraining myself because I thought you would prefer it if I didn't invade your privacy."

A fine eyebrow tilted upward, but otherwise, Spock's face was deceptively empty.

Jim felt a faint blush spread across his cheeks, but he refused to look away. He wasn't going to run from a conversation as mundane as this. "When I first became the captain of the Enterprise, I did my best to get to know the crew through the information Starfleet gave me. I'd never worked with a Vulcan before, so I researched Vulcan custom." The blush deepened. "I read that Vulcans preferred their personal space."

The eyebrow crept higher, and Jim could read genuine surprise in the set of Spock's lips. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Captain. I apologize if I offended you with my line of questioning."

Jim allowed a small smile to cross his face, and some of that strange pressure in his chest lifted. "Don't worry about it, Mr. Spock. I'm just glad we understand each other."

His words were met with a slow nod. "Indeed." Stars that deep voice could make him _shiver_ if he let it, which he didn't. At the next words, however, Jim was unable to stop the small tremor that ran through his body like lightning. "Captain...I am not averse to your touch. It is a part of who you are. I do, however, request that you limit any skin-to-skin contact." Then, as if those words hadn't completely shattered Jim's worldview, the Vulcan nodded to the chessboard. "I believe it is your turn to move."

Jim nodded dumbly, moving his king out of reach of Spock's queen automatically. It wasn't like Spock had given him permission to kiss him or anything—getting that image out of his head was harder than it should have been—but Jim couldn't stop the butterflies that flitted happily around his stomach. This was important to Spock, and although Jim wasn't going to give himself hope by reading too far into it, he knew that their relationship had changed.

The game ended four moves later, and Jim didn't feel even a hint of regret as he tipped over his king in defeat. They both stood from the table and Jim clapped Spock on the back. "Good game, Spock," he said, his smile wider than the event probably warranted. Thankfully, Spock didn't seem to mind his emotionalism.

"Indeed. I look forward to our opportunity to play."

Then, the Vulcan was gone, and Jim was left trying to figure out why his hand was still tingling an hour later.

. . .

Phaser blasts flew through the air all around them as Jim, Spock, and Ensign Redan made for the nearest outcropping of rocks. Jim jumped behind as one particularly well-aimed blast barreled through the space he had been occupying a half-second before. An instant later, both Spock and the ensign joined him.

The ensign was breathing heavily, and blood dribbled from a cut above his left eyebrow. The kid had never been in a firefight before, but he was doing a remarkably good job so far and hadn't sustained any lasting injuries. Spock, on the other hand, was a different story.

They had been surveying an abandoned Terran colony when they were ambushed by a group of aliens that Jim hadn't caught the name of. Spock heard them before anyone saw them and pushed both Jim and the ensign to the ground as shots started flying. As red dust filled his eyes, Jim had seen Spock stumble slightly before returning fire, and he knew the Vulcan had been hit. Spock, of course, didn't say anything about it, and soon Jim was too busy dodging phaser blasts to ask. Now, however, they were somewhat safe.

"Redan, watch for hostiles while I tend Commander Spock's wound."

"Aye, Captain."

The fact that Spock didn't protest when Jim helped him to sit against the rocks told him how bad the blast must have injured him. "Hold on, Spock," Jim ordered, keeping his voice steady as he looked down at the rapidly expanding stain of green on the Vulcan's tunic. The blast had hit him less than a dozen centimeters above his heart if Jim was remembering his Vulcan anatomy correctly.

His hands moved almost of their own accord, ripping off the portion of Spock's tunic that was in his way and then tearing off the sleeve of his own to form a makeshift bandage. He apologized the entire time and narrated his actions, more to keep himself calm than to help Spock. The wound was bad, and Spock needed more medical attention than Jim could provide.

"Stay with me, Spock," he chocked past the lump in his throat as he saw the Vulcan's eyelids start to flutter. He grabbed Spock's wrist, careful to keep his grasp on the fabric and not the skin, and moved it to the fabric covering the wound. "I need you to apply as much pressure as you can while I contact the ship. Understood?"

The Vulcan's lips moved, but no sound came out, and after a moment, he nodded sluggishly. Jim ignored the way his heart clenched and flicked open his communicator. "Kirk to Enterprise. Come in Enterprise!"

There was silence and then, "This is the Enterprise, Captain." Stars, Uhura's voice had never sounded so sweet!

"Three to beam up. Have a medical team stand by in the transporter room, Commander Spock is gravely injured." The words came out in a rush and an instant later, the world around him was shimmering.

. . .

Waiting patiently was not one of Jim's strong suits, and it never had been. Waiting to hear whether or not Spock was going to be okay was even harder. Spock had been rushed to sickbay the second they had materialized, and Bones had ordered the nurses to keep Jim out of the room so that he could work undisturbed. For half an hour, he had paced outside the door, but when he realized that his worry was spreading to the other crewmembers nearby, he had abandoned that.

Now, he was staring sightlessly out a window on the observation deck. The door had opened and closed a few times since he had walked in—he had no idea how long ago that was—but no one stayed.

After most missions like this, the ones that went wrong, Jim would file his report with Starfleet and then either run himself ragged on the treadmill or play a brutal game of chess with Spock. He hadn't done any of that. His mind, it seemed, was stuck on loop. All he could see was Spock, the brave, idiotic Vulcan, pushing him to the ground and then staggering with the force of the phaser blast that had torn into his side. Over and over again.

He crossed his arms, shoving his suddenly cold hands up into his armpits and biting his lip. His hands still tingled, just like they always did after brushing against Spock. Stars, the Vulcan was dying and Jim's mind was focused on his tingling hands.

His thoughts continued to spiral downward, and before long, Jim could taste copper in his mouth.

The beeping of his communicator finally drew him out of the darkness. His breath caught in his throat as he tapped it and waited for Bones's voice to crackle through. Please let Spock be okay. Please, please, please, plea—

"He made it, Jim. Spock's okay." The breath he had been holding came out in a rush, and suddenly Jim had to grab the windowsill for support. "He's in one of those Vulcan-voodoo trances, but M'Benga says he should be awake in a few hours."

Jim swallowed. "Thank you, Bones," he said, and if his voice quavered, the doctor didn't mention it. "I'll be right down."

His knuckles turned white as his grip on the windowsill tightened and he took a few deep breaths. Spock was alive. Tears sprang to his eyes—if he had been more aware, he might have wondered why the thought of Spock's death brought him to tears when he lived with the possibility of death every day, every mission—and he blinked them away. Then, he pushed away from the window. He had to go see Spock.

. . .

When Spock woke, he did so slowly. Often, when he came out of a healing trance, his senses returned to him one at a time. This time, the first thing he regained awareness of was his sense of touch. He could feel the firmness of a biobed underneath him, feel the scratch of bandages against his stomach, feel the starched material of his uniform. He could also feel warmth, bleeding through his sleeve and causing his skin to tingle.

The rest of his senses returned much more quickly, and he was not entirely surprised to open his eyes and see that the cause of the heavy warmth he felt was his captain, his fingers twisted into Spock's sleeve even as his head sagged against his own chest in sleep. Spock did not even consider freeing himself from the man's grip.

For several moments, he simply gazed at his sleeping captain, a familiar mix of emotions rising to the surface of his mind as he did so. Over the past several months, those feelings had strengthened, and he had learned to classify them through many hours of meditation.

The first he had identified was respect. He had served under multiple captains and other leaders throughout his life, but none of them had so easily earned his respect. His captain had earned it the moment he held his hand up in a ta'al, having obviously practiced the gesture beforehand.

The next was admiration. This, too, had not taken long for Spock to categorize. How could one not admire James Tiberius Kirk? The man committed all of his efforts to the welfare of his crew and the success of their mission, often against odds that many would have deemed impossible. He led from the front, unafraid to take the fall in the place of another.

Then came friendship. To Spock, it seemed like this emotion had come upon him far too quickly to be Vulcan, but it was undeniable in its strength. There had been a time when it was accompanied by shame but no longer. There was no shame in declaring a man such as his captain to be a friend. If he was not worthy of the title, there was no one who was.

The final emotion had taken much longer for Spock to identify. Months. Now, however, he knew to call it love. The word seemed too small to encompass the brightness he felt, but he knew that was what it was. When he had first realized, he had been ashamed and afraid. He was unworthy to carry such emotions toward his superior officer. Over time, however, he had determined that his love was logical. His captain was kind, affectionate, passionate, wise, patient, stubborn, determined, optimistic, realistic, honest, and a thousand other things. He swept into lives and left loving hearts in his wake. It was simply his nature.

Before his mind could wander too far down this path—it was a well-trodden road, and Spock knew its bends well—the man in question let out a quiet groan and began to sit up. Slowly, his eyes opened, and he blinked several times, tired eyes meeting Spock's. Then, he froze, his hand still gripping Spock's sleeve.

"Spock! You're awake!" His face split into a large grin, and he sat forward in his chair, his eyes roaming over Spock's face as if to memorize every detail, every sign of life.

Spock nodded. "I am, and I see that you are also in good health." His captain, it seemed, was uninjured, save for a few shallow scrapes on his hands and face.

The captain's grin faded slightly. "I would be dead if not for you, and so would Esign Redan. Thank you."

"No thanks are necessary, Captain," Spock declared, shaking his head. He had done only what any other sensible being would do in his situation. How could a person not choose to preserve the life of one so blindingly brilliant?

The captain looked down at that, and his eyes fell on the place where his hand still clung to Spock's sleeve. In an instant, Spock saw his eyes widen fractionally and knew that the man believed himself to have overstepped the bounds of propriety. Spock moved to place a hand on his captain's arm to reassure him that the touch was not unwanted, but as he did so, the man flinched away, and their hands collided.

It was a brief touch, not long enough for any but the barest telepathic transmission to occur, but Spock felt sparks jump in his fingertips where they had brushed his captains. They didn't last long enough for him to analyze properly, but there was no denying that he had felt something in that single touch he had not ever felt before.

"Stars, Spock, I'm sorry," his captain declared, standing and taking a step back, his hands flying behind his back. "I didn't mean to do that, or fall asleep like that, or—I'm glad you're awake. I'll see you later." The man flashed a tight smile, and before Spock could formulate a comprehensible protest, he was gone.

Spock laid back against his pillow and stared up at the ceiling. Had been more human he would have sighed.

. . .

His relationship with the captain had changed. Ever since the unintentional contact in the sickbay twelve days, nine hours, and thirty-one minutes ago, the man had been more distant. They had played chess twice since the incident, and both times, the captain took care to remove his hands completely from the board after he had finished moving his pieces and did not clap Spock on the back as he had taken to doing.

Such small changes should not have disturbed Spock the way that they did. He was a Vulcan; he should welcome the respect for his privacy that the captain showed him. He did not. He found that his skin itched when he was too near the man, when he saw him restrain himself from reaching out. He had never felt this way before, and even after several hours of meditation on the subject he was unable to control it or find a suitable explanation.

Finally, Spock decided that the only way to return balance to the relationship he and his captain shared would be to deliberately inform the man that his actions in sickbay had not offended him in any way, although he would take care to not reveal just how welcome similar touches would be. He would not overstep the bounds of their friendship when even such a small infraction clearly disturbed his captain.

. . .

Jim let out a quiet groan of frustration. He was supposed to be going over reports from engineering—Scotty wanted approval for another one of his experiments with the engine—but his mind was so preoccupied that he couldn't make heads or tails of the physics the engineer had attempted to explain. This stuff was complicated enough without all of his other thoughts getting in the way.

If it had been a particularly busy or stressful week, he might have cut himself some slack. After all, a captain who negotiated treaties, outsmarted Klingons, and evaded cosmic beings who wanted to commandeer the ship for one reason or another deserved a little relaxation. But Jim hadn't done any of that. This week had been nothing but star-mapping, a job that required very little attention on Jim's part.

No, his distracted state of mind was from none other than his first officer.

He had screwed up in sickbay. All he had to do was follow one simple rule: no skin-to-skin contact. That was it. And still he had managed to mess it up. Looking back on the event—something he had done more times than was healthy over the past several days—he knew that it wasn't entirely his fault, but if he hadn't fallen asleep _clutching_ Spock's sleeve, there wouldn't have been a problem in the first place.

He should have been able to move past the one event—they had touched for maybe half a second at most—but he couldn't because if he closed his eyes and focused, he swore he could still feel a faint tingle under his skin. He had thought about asking Bones or M'Benga about it, but he had eventually decided that it was likely just a figment of his twisted imagination, and if it wasn't, it probably wasn't something that Spock would want discussed. Who knew how many cultural standards Jim had violated with his actions?

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tossing the PADD aside. There was no way he was going to be able to actually understand enough of the report to sign off on the experiment in his current state. Instead, he stood from his desk and crossed the room to his bed. It was earlier than he normally went to sleep, but Bones was always griping at him for not getting enough rest. He sat down on the edge and was about to start unlacing his boots when his door beeped, announcing a visitor.

"Come in," he called, standing from his bed and biting back another sigh. If this was Scotty asking about that report…

The door slid open to reveal not his chief engineer but his first officer, hands clasped behind his back in a perfect parade rest. Jim ignored the way his heart seemed to beat a little faster and gestured for Spock to step inside.

"What do you need, Mr. Spock?" he asked, smiling even though it felt wrong. Stars, he could feel the tension between them, and he wanted it to just go away already, but he didn't know what to do. He had already apologized once, and he was almost certain that he wouldn't be able to stop himself from telling Spock exactly why he had fallen asleep with his fingers gripping his sleeve like a lifeline.

The Vulcan had stepped into the room only far enough to allow the door to close behind him, and as the silence continued, Jim realized that whatever it was Spock had to say was likely the kind of conversation he wanted to be sitting down for.

"Have a seat, Spock," he suggested, gesturing to the chair where the Vulcan usually sat to play chess and taking his own seat. Spock did so, and after a moment, he placed his folded hands on the table and began to speak.

"Captain, I feel as if you are laboring under an incorrect presumption that is causing you guilt or pain." Jim swallowed. Of course this was the conversation Spock had come for. Well, Jim wasn't going to run from it.

"You're referring to what happened in sickbay," he stated, and the Vulcan nodded. "Spock, I truly am sorry for violating your privacy." He hesitated and glanced down at his own hands, which itched for a chess piece to play fiddle with. "But I feel like I can't make a full apology without knowing what I did. It was something significant, and it made you uncomfortable." He looked back up, meeting Spock's gaze with his own and daring the Vulcan to challenge his statements. To his surprise, Spock shook his head slightly.

"I was not discomforted, Captain."

"I think this is a Jim conversation."

The Vulcan didn't contradict him. "Your touch did not make me uncomfortable as you believe it did. However, it did surprise me, and it is possible that you interpreted this surprise as disgust or alarm. I promise you, it was neither of those things." The Vulcan's voice was low and steady in a way Jim knew his own voice wouldn't be.

"Why? What surprised you? That I would so blatantly ignore the only rule you've ever given me?" He shook his head derisively. "I don't blame you."

A minuscule crease formed between Spock's brows, the Vulcan's version of a deep frown. "No, Jim." He looked as if he was going to say something else, but he stopped, and to his surprise, Jim detected a faint green color dusting the tips of his ears.

"Spock? What did I do?" Jim's heart was beating far faster than the conversation warranted.

"As you know, Vulcans are touch-telepaths," Spock began, and Jim saw the way he reasserted control over his features. "As such, hands carry a wide array of cultural significance. Most physical contact is reserved for family members...and couples." His ears were vibrantly green now, and Jim could feel his own cheeks and ears burning.

"Oh stars. Did I assault you somehow?" he asked, the words barely more than a horrified whisper. He had known that a romantic relationship was out of the question with Spock, but now he had managed to ruin his friendship too. Stars…

Spock's eyes widened a fraction. "No, Jim, even on Vulcan your actions would not be portrayed as such. Our touch was brief and far more casual in nature—forgive me, translating meanings into human equivalents is difficult."

Jim let out a quiet sigh. "Okay, so then what was it that surprised you?" Despite his burning need to understand what had happened between the two of them, he made sure to keep his tone soft. He knew Spock well enough to know that if he pushed too hard now, the Vulcan would withdraw and he would never find out what their touch had meant.

"The connection that occurred," Spock replied, his gaze steady and swirling with emotions. With a start, Jim realized that the Vulcan wasn't working to conceal the emotions in his eyes as he often did. He was giving Jim a window into his mind, into his heart. "A simple touch should not have warranted any lasting effects, and yet still I can feel the echo."

Jim nodded almost without thinking about it. "What does that mean?"

This time, the Vulcan's answer was not so quick in coming. Finally, he dropped his gaze. "I am not certain. However, I have heard accounts of Vulcans experiencing something similar when first melding with another extremely compatible mind."

Another nod. "Okay. I guess that makes sense. We work well together as a team, so I can see how our minds would probably be compatible." Jim tried in vain to still his racing heart. Compatible with Spock. Stars that sounded glorious. "But that doesn't explain why you're so tense around me now. I mean, I know I'm part of it, but…"

Spock sat up even straighter in his chair—Jim hadn't thought that was possible—and was silent for several moments that seemed to stretch into eternities. Finally, he looked down at his hands, still clasped in front of him, and said,

"I am not made uncomfortable by your tactile expressions of friendship." Spock's voice was stiff, and Jim listened with baited breath, knowing that the next words to come from the Vulcan's mouth could change everything. "But your fleeting touch in sickbay forced me to realize that not only am I not discomforted by your touch, I welcome it." He looked back up, and those deep brown eyes seemed to pierce straight to Jim's soul. "I find that I do not want there to be barriers of friendship between us. Selfishly, I desire more than your friendship."

Seconds passed in silence. Or maybe they were minutes. Jim's brain was too far gone to tell the difference. Was Spock saying what he thought he was saying? What did he think Spock was saying? More than friendship...as in what? A romantic relationship?

"Spock." Jim licked his lips and tried again. "Spock, what does that mean? Are you wanting a romantic relationship? Or a no-strings-attatched fling? Or…" Stars, Jim had never wanted something to not be a fling so much in his entire life. He didn't want Spock for one night. He wanted the Vulcan forever. He wanted to hold him when he fell asleep and wake up in his arms and cook breakfast together and brush their hands together on the bridge when no one is looking and—

"I...did not believe you would be open to any kind of relationship beyond that which we already shared." Spock's confused voice snapped Jim out of his spiraling thoughts. The look on the Vulcan's face was somewhere in the limbo between disbelief and hope, and Jim felt his heart shatter.

"There is nothing I would like more," he stated firmly, leaning across the table to be closer to Spock. "I've wanted to woo you from day one, Mr. Spock, but I figured you'd never go for someone as emotional and illogical as me, so I settled for being your friend." He took a deep breath. "I want something that will last, something important."

Spock gazed at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he held out one hand, his fore and middle fingers extended. "Translating Vulcan gestures is difficult, but the nearest equivalent to the Ozh'esta would be a human kiss." There was a question in Spock's eyes, and Jim copied the gesture readily, sliding his fingers against Spock's and reveling in the sparks that jumped between them.

After a minute, they drew away, and Jim stood from his seat and crossed to Spock's side of the table. With one hand, he pulled Spock up to him, and with the other, he gently tilted the Vulcan's face toward his own.

"May I kiss you?" he whispered. In response, Spock leaned forward, and the stars exploded around them as time stood still. Jim's eyes slid closed, and he pulled Spock closer. Now that he was allowed to touch, he didn't plan on ever letting go.

A/N So, what do you think? It turned out a lot more reflective than I had anticipated. As always, I absolutely adore any and all comments that you leave me. Thank you so much for reading, and a special thanks to the anon who requested this fic!


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